Tag: fame

I can’t think of a worse torture than being a movie star, being looked at and talked about and admired. To me, the centre of attention is where Tom Cruise lives. It’s therefore something to be observed from a great distance, ideally through the scope of a high-powered rifle.

If you met me you’d probably never guess that I’m an introvert: it’s just that you’re unlikely to meet me in the first place, so it’s a moot point. Most people seem to live their lives hoping to be invited to parties, but I live my life grateful that I’m not. Being surrounded by people exhausts me, which is why I never take part in orgies, and why fame is a terrifying concept.

So it was strange to find out recently that people I don’t know had been talking about me. Well, its a kind of fame, I guess. I wasn’t exactly thrust into the spotlight, I was just told that 2 strangers who follow this blog had discussed me, and had decided I write like a girl, which was fine, and I wasn’t crying, I just had something in my eye. It’s actually the second time I’ve been told this, and I’m starting to wonder if there’s any truth in it. Being of a analytical and scientific bent I did some experimenting, and after pulling rhythmically on my penis for around 15-20 minutes I realised two things:

That it was definitely firmly attached, and not a strap-on at all; and

That I really should have fetched the tissues before I started my experiment: waddling into the kitchen with my pants round my ankles and one messy hand is undignified at my age.

So quod erat demonstrandum I’m not a girl, but apparently I write like one. And I’ve been trying to work out what “writes like a girl” actually means.

Perhaps it means that I gleefully admit to regular catastrophic failings, which is a singularly un-male thing to do. Most men are so busy competing with each other to crawl to the top of the sexual pile that they daren’t admit for a moment that the view from half-way up the pile is good enough, and that they’re actually quite tired and want a sit down.

But I’m not at the top, and from my disadvantage-point halfway down the pile I can look right up the noses of those who do get to the top, and can see how full of mucus their heads really are. Awful people. Constantly competing. It’s just misfiring synapse telling them to endlessly battle for sexual dominance, and to be “the best”. It’s what leads to David Cameron unless it’s nipped in the bud early on. Who wants to reach the top if you’re surrounded by people like him? The middle is fine. All the best comedies are about being trapped in the middle, and that’s where I am – in the middle, and laughing. Join me, and ignore those gobshites at the top, battling for sexual supremecy until everyone hates them too much to want to see them nekkid. I’d rather put a smile on your face than my balls.

OK, maybe a smile and then my balls.

Moving on… I think the “he writes like a girl” theory is probably right. I probably do. But I think it just means I’ve recognised there are some things a woman can say which a man can’t get away with. For example, if a girl blogs that size is really important, and that she can’t form a relationship with a man who doesn’t have a throbbing sea-beast living in his trousers, she’s considered a modern, go-getting woman who has standards and needs, and ensures they’re met.

But if a guy says he only wants to date women who have huge tits, he’s a troglodyte and needs to drag himself out of the 1970s and recognise that women are more than just a pair of breasts… exquisite breasts.

Experiment time again!

But not many guys actually say that sort of thing about tits. I’m sure more of them think it than say it, but I’m equally sure a lot of men don’t even think it. I don’t believe that men automatically think like men and women think like women: there’s a continuum, and we’re all somewhere along it.

Personally I don’t get pissed or punch people at weddings or do anything else celebrate my monkey heritage, other than read books by Richard Dawkins. I don’t shout “oi oi” at passing scrubbers, or even think women are scrubbers (except for cackling women who quaff Lambrusco in the back of a stretch Hummer, but that’s a perfectly fair assumption).

My next-door-neighbour, who has a Manchester City flag pinned above his front door, has no idea how to relate to me. The moment I moved in he asked which team I support, and when I told him I didn’t follow football he gave me a look as though I’d just announced I live on the blood of freshly killed goats, and travel everywhere by magic carpet. To him I am undoubtedly a “man who writes like a girl”, but I suspect he thinks anybody who writes (or reads, for that matter) has suspect masculinity.

But I couldn’t give a wobbly tartan fuck about his opinion. To you he may be a proper man, but to me he’s a proper chimp. For Christ’s sake, he stands in his garden with a beer and a fag, and watches City play through his front window, because he’s got a 72 inch wall-mounted TV in the living room. He should be shot. Twice.

Is that a man? Yes, by some standards. By my standards I’m a big northern bloke, who used to box, pronounces “scone” the wrong way, and has absolutely no fear of Salford. But I also have a healthy, if slightly cynical respect for women, enjoy recondite words like recondite, like to paint pretty pictures, and feel fine admitting that Amelie warms my cockles. I’m on the “male” continuum, I’m just in a different place from him.

And on the “female” continuum? Well, I’ve never met @katy_red (AKA Honey) but my guess is that she’s not a florid, flouncy girly-girl, who drives a yellow Beetle with a flower in the window and clads herself in more pink than Barbara Cartland’s clitoris. You could argue that makes her “less of a woman”, but what’s a woman anyway? And what’s a man? We can all take our clothes off and find out, but I don’t like orgies as I mentioned earlier, so I’ll just accept your word for what happens next. Write a blog about it, I don’t care if it’s a girly one as long as I get to (ahem) “experiment” again. Kleenex, please.

I’m tired of typical. Typical is so boring. Typical wears a shell-suit and gobs on the street. Typical beats his wife. Typical is down the pub when he should be reading to his kids and helping clean the house. Fuck typical. I’ll keep writing like a girl, screwing like a man, and confusing the neighbours.